


no good kings, only burning palaces

by kindclaws



Series: bingo, chopped, and prompts [10]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Distance Relationship, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Tattoo Artist Clarke Griffin, you love them and you know they love you but neither of you can say it or you'll fall apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-07 07:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21454276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindclaws/pseuds/kindclaws
Summary: Clarke doesn't come home after Mount Weather, but she never goes far enough for Bellamy to fall out of love with her, either. Three years later, she sells ink and secrets out of a small shop in Polis, and her friends decide it's time for her to come home.(Canon-divergent after S2 finale, no Praimfaya)
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: bingo, chopped, and prompts [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1503152
Comments: 10
Kudos: 237





	no good kings, only burning palaces

**Author's Note:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:** feelings of low self worth, nightmares, some gore, some uncanny valley vibes. There's an open ending but I think it's happy. Wait, I'm in charge! It's happy, I declare it so.
> 
> This was written for Bellarke bingo! Prompts included:  
\- Tattoo artist Clarke  
\- Spies  
\- Politician au  
\- Nightmares  
\- Setting: Polis
> 
> **PERMISSIONS:** Please do not download and save this fic locally. I make frequent revisions and don't like the idea of old versions being out there, and if I ever decide I hate it, I'll orphan it rather than delete it so you'll still be able to find and read it! I'm open to translations and podfics, but please contact me on tumblr first. Do not upload to other sites. Do not claim as your own.

The day begins like most do: the girl who lives in the back of the tattoo shop wakes just before dawn to the sound of her neighbour's chickens clucking affectionately. It is early spring, and when she slips out of bed, the floor is cold under her barefoot soles. Yesterday she received as payment a pair of woolen socks from a Floukru couple who came to get betrothal tattoos, and she puts them on with relish now, delighting at the sudden warmth. The fire is subdued, having died down sometime in the night. She adds a few of the smaller logs to get it hungry again and when it is large and bright and hot against her outstretched hands, she sets a pot of water to warm over it. 

She sits at her desk to wait for the water, and absently considers some scattered sketches while she unbraids her hair. Even with the braid it got tangled in the night and there are thick knots at the base of her neck that need careful tending. She's gotten better at dyeing it in the last few years and it is not so obvious of a paint job, but it still leaves a residue on her hair that clumps together despite her best efforts. By the time she combs it out with another payment - a beautiful bone comb, courtesy of a Trikru client who came by for a massive chest piece - the water is gently steaming up into the chimney. 

She takes it off the fire and dips a ladle into it, testing the temperature. Hot, but not enough enough to burn. She drags her stool over to the drain in the floor and undresses quickly, shivering. She'll enjoy her mornings more when summer finally comes, she thinks. It was a long winter, a hard one for most of the clans, and a difficult beginning for the new Skaikru outpost. 

She stands over the drain and sweeps her long hair off the back of her neck, bowing her head over the drain and letting it hang. As she pours ladles of hot water over her hair, a thin red stream falls from it and swirls around the drain. It reminds her uncomfortably of blood, and she starts humming a half-remembered song if only to chase away the cold dread that threatens to gather inside of her. She's seen enough blood go down the drain to last her a life time. No more, now. No more, ever again.

Eventually, the red stops running and the curtain of wet hair that hangs around her lowered face is a dark and infamous gold. She saw it in the mirror for eighteen years, but the sight of it every morning always gives her a shock. She doesn't quite recognize it anymore.

Next to the other inks in the front of the shop, there is a small earthenware pot with a thick wine-red sludge in it. It smells sweet when she pops the cork off and spreads a glob of it on her bone comb. She works it into her hair in a matter of minutes, her hands working on muscle memory as her mind strays to the day's appointments. Only two, today, plus whatever impulse customers see the sign outside her door and poke their heads in. A quiet day, but work will pick up in the summer. It always does. 

She lets her now red hair fall around her shoulders, damp and chill against her skin, and dresses again. The air outside makes her hurry her steps, eager to return to the warmth of the hearth fire. The neighbour's chickens cluck disapprovingly at her as she enters their enclosure, stepping carefully around the small bodies fluffed up against the morning chill. She gathers only a handful of eggs from the coop - her neighbour's grandson comes by later in the morning to gather the rest. She picks her way back out of the enclosure and cradles a few eggs in the crook of her arm to free a hand to knock on the neighbouring door. Slow, shuffling footsteps from inside draw nearer. The door opens, and she is greeted by a weather-beaten face with a toothy grin. Most of the residents of this corner of Polis are elderly. The tattooist is a rare exception. 

"Morning!" she says, cheerfully handing over all but two of the eggs. "Breakfast!"

He cradles them carefully and thanks her in hoarse, rambling Trigedasleng. She crosses back to her own house and hums happily as warm air from the fire washes over her. She sets her two eggs to boil and sits down at her desk to properly review her work for the day. 

The first tattoo is for a young warrior, newly-blooded, who comes in with a girl whose bone structure makes it likely they're siblings. Something in the tattoo artist's ribcage aches at the sight of them. Their dark gazes follow her around her shop in unison as she prepares her tools. When the boy crawls onto the table and exposes his back for her, his sister sits by his head and watches every prick of the ink-soaked needle into his skin. 

"Have you been in Polis long?" the tattooist asks as she bends over her work.

"Just passing through," the boy says through gritted teeth. His sister clicks her tongue. The tattooist pauses her work, considering her client's voice. 

"Do you need to rest before I continue?" she asks.

"We've survived worse than that tiny needle," the girl says derisively. "He doesn't need a break."

"I didn't ask you," the tattooist says, though she knows the chance of the brother disagreeing with her is minimal.

"I'm fine," he says, the muscles in his back rippling as he adjusts his weight on her table. "Please keep going."

Towards the end the sister seems to decide her brother won't be murdered with a needle during the procedure and starts poking through the shop's supplies. The tattooist leans back on her stool and wipes excess ink off her hands. Her movements are casual. Her posture relaxed. But her eyes are the colour of a storming, furious sea as the other girl's hands stray close to the small, unmarked pot of red dye. Her gaze is too sharp for that of an ordinary artist.

"I'm nearly done," the tattooist says calmly. The girl stops examining the shelves and comes back to lurk by her brother's shoulder. "I give discounts for stories. Any news from your travels?"

The boy grunts. 

"A Skaikru delegation arrived in Polis this morning," the boy says, as his sister rolls her eyes.

"Mainland Skaikru?" the tattooist asks, forcing her voice to be casual. "Or from the outpost?"

"Does it matter?" the boy says with a snort. "They're Skaikru. Azgeda isn't happy, but you didn't hear it from me."

Neither of the siblings bear any scarification on their faces, so the tattooist feels safe in dropping her voice and making a carefully rehearsed joke.

"It's Azgeda," she says, as though she knows all about it. "They're never happy."

The sister actually smiles. She fingers her coin purse as the tattooist wipes the last of the ink off her brother's back and bandages the fresh tattoo. 

"Do you do kill marks?" she asks casually. The tattooist's hands falter with the roll of bandages only for a second. She has a sudden memory, still vivid after three years, of fingers trailing down her shoulderblade. _No kill marks_, a voice remarks softly. _My back isn't big enough_, she remembers herself saying. She shakes the feeling away and forces herself to meet the girl's eyes.

"I don't," she says, her voice neutral, dismissive. "And anyway, your clan leader wouldn't approve."

When the siblings have paid and left, she bars her door shut and pries a floorboard near the bed up from its neighbouring slats. She draws a dusty bag up from the hole beneath her house. Inside there is a radio with its power source removed, a watch that will never tell time again, and several roughly-bound notebooks. 

She sets the radio aside for a moment and flips open the newest notebook. Inside she scrawls a few notes. Skaikru is in town a week before she expected them. The girl was wearing new furs, and the traces of her accent didn't match the sigil of the clasp binding them around her shoulders. Asking about kill marks is unusual, and suggests a recent shift in their leadership that they don't agree with. She should figure out who they're trading with and who might want that information the most. 

After blowing on the ink and packing the notebooks back into the bag, she reaches for the radio. She keeps it off most of the time since anyone who could contact her is usually out of range, and even if they weren't, electronic chirps and voices coming from beneath the floorboards would greatly undermine the careful identity she's built here. She takes a deep breath.

Just as she's about to slot in the power cell, her door rattles under the force of a knock. 

"Just a second!" the tattooist calls out as she shoves her illicit possessions into the bag and replaces the floorboard. She brushes dust off her knees and forces herself to smile before unbarring the door. Bright light streams in around a silhouette slightly taller than her, and she squints against it. 

"Are you going to let me in?" a low, amused voice asks, and she pulls him inside and slams the door. As soon as they're out of view his arms wrap around her waist and pull her tightly against his body. She buries her face against his neck and breathes in his familiar smell. His curls tickle her nose. 

"I missed you," she says, hardly a whisper. His arms twitch protectively around her.

"I missed you too, _Clarke_," he says, and the sound of her name for the first time in weeks makes the last of her walls crumble. She pulls away and twirls one of the curls at the nape of his neck around her finger. 

"Your hair is ridiculous," she says. "Have you had a haircut since the last time I saw you?"

"Probably not," Bellamy says. "I know you like to pull on it," and with that, he boldly picks her up and sets her on the table. 

"Not here, asshole," Clarke says as he mouths at the curve of her neck. "I work here. I keep it sanitary."

“Bed?” Bellamy asks, his breath spilling over her neck. Clarke opens her mouth to agree just as he grazes his teeth against her skin and the sharp bolt of desire that goes through her makes her _yes_ come out as a moan. She shoves lightly at his chest until he steps back and helps her down. His hands linger on her hips and pull at her belt the whole way through her small home, leaving a trail of discarded clothes leading to the bed. 

Clarke tilts her head back and welcomes a taste of heaven.

After, she sits cross-legged on the bed, papers scattered all around her, one of them protecting Bellamy's modesty as he stretches out next to her. The warmth of the hearthfire is not quite enough to stop the bloom of goosebumps on Clarke's skin, but her heart rate has yet to come down and she feels flushed and hot from the inside out. It's always like this, when he visits. Even though she's happy here in Polis - as happy as she deserves to be - when Bellamy comes it's like he's pulling her out of cold water, and the warmth lingers for a while after he leaves, until she forgets and is shocked to see him all over again. She thinks she doesn't deserve the way he holds her tightly, reverently every time, like maybe he was holding his breath for her too.

Reminding herself that he's here on business helps, so she turns her notes this way and that, deciphering her own writing. Raven or Monty would have come up with better encryption, probably, an unreadable code, but Clarke gets by with nicknames and vague allusions. 

"So the evidence points to Broadleaf having some kind of smuggling operation out of Polis, which you can bring up in negotiations if they get too high and mighty," she muses, tapping a finger against a wrinkled page. "And lastly - " she fills him in on the siblings who came in this morning and her theories on a power struggle. "I think Delphi might be backing one of them," she says. "I'll keep an eye on it."

"Clarke," Bellamy says, affectionate and exasperated all at once. "As exciting as it is to see how competent you are at espionage, I was hoping you would indulge a little before we got down to business."

"Just how many orgasms would I need to have before you consider I've indulged enough?" Clarke asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, at least one more," Bellamy murmurs, sweeping some of the papers away and tugging Clarke onto his chest. Clarke braces her arms against him and wriggles in protest as he lays open-mouthed kisses up the column of her neck.

"Bellamy - " she says with a gasp. "Bell, this is _important_."

She pushes until his arms reluctantly loosen and allow her to sit up. Clarke tries to fix her greasy hair to hide the unease that settles in her stomach.

"Clarke," he says softly - and she has to wonder if he knows the effect it has on her. She rarely hears her own name, and to hear the shock of it in his voice, said with the emotion she refuses to name - every time, it feels like a kick to the solar plexus. Clarke turns away and stares studiously at the papers that have been scattered in disarray. "Clarke, please look at me," he says. He brushes her hair away and cups a warm and hesitant hand against her cheek. Clarke leans into it despite herself, kissing his callused palm. 

"This is important to me," she says, gesturing to her notes. "This is how I can protect our people."

"We're flourishing, Clarke," Bellamy says gently. "I... It's been three years. I want you to come home with me. I want you to see the house I built and Monty's gardens and Raven's forge. I want you to eat Murphy's cooking with a campfire at your feet and your friends all around you, and wash out that dye, and finally get that drink with me..."

"I don't deserve it," she whispers. 

"You're never going to think you do," Bellamy says, frustration creeping into his tone. "I'll give it to you anyway."

"Stop it, Bellamy," she says sharply. 

"You never asked me what I wanted," Bellamy says. "After the lever - "

"Don't talk about the goddamn lever - "

"You just kissed me and walked away!" Bellamy continues, his voice rising over hers. "I've been waiting for you to come home for three years, Clarke! I did what you asked. I kept them safe. I led an exodus out of Arkadia when the adults let us down, I rebuilt a home, and I left space for you. Everything I do, Clarke, has a hole that is shaped like you. I don't want to do this alone anymore."

"You weren't alone," Clarke says. "You have Raven and Miller and Monty, and you have the secrets I give you, and - "

"Ask me what I want," Bellamy begs. "More than anything you can learn here in Polis."

"I'm not ready," Clarke whispers, and Bellamy closes his eyes like he's been hit.

"I should go," he says, and her heart falls. 

"Bellamy - " 

"It's not you," he interrupts. "I just... I need a clear head before meeting with the other ambassadors tonight."

Clarke stays out of the way as he dresses, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms hugging them. The warmth that lingered underneath her skin has faded now, and Bellamy pauses after putting on his jacket when he sees her shiver. She thinks he's going to stay, or say something - but he only reaches past her and picks up one of the furs on her bed and drapes it around her shoulders. It still smells like him.

"Watch out for Delphi," Clarke says, as he laces his shoes. "And Azgeda - there's a rumour that they're not keen on your delegation staying in Polis - " she stands and picks up the relevant notes as she does, stacking the papers and following Bellamy to the door. He reaches for the door latch. She touches his arm and thrusts her notes forward.

"I don't want you to be my spy, Clarke," Bellamy says sharply, making no move to take the papers from her. "I want you to be my partner."

And then he is gone.

Late that night, well after Clarke has locked up her shop and washed the sticky red dye out of her hair, a heavy hand knocks against her door. 

Clarke sets down her drawing pad, makes sure the floorboard is secure, and slips a knife up the sleeve of her nightshirt. She steps lightly to the door and then stands there, holding her breath and listening carefully. The visitor on her doorstep shuffles quietly, and then knocks again.

"Clarke," he says lowly. "It's me."

She lets him in, ducking out of the lamp's yellow glow so no one outside on the street will see her blonde hair. The sky behind Bellamy's head is a purple-blue so deep it could be royalty, and the lamp's outside flicker with soft orange fire. It's a beautiful contrast. She closes the door behind him reluctantly, wishing she'd left the dye in so she could look outside safely. 

Inside, Clarke slips the knife out of her sleeve and sets it on the table. Bellamy's lips twitch at the sight of it, like he'd like to laugh, but he's still remembering how they parted earlier. 

"I brought you vegetables," Bellamy says, lifting up a burlap bag and setting it next to her knife. "The first harvest from our greenhouse. Monty is worried you're not eating enough vegetables," Bellamy adds. 

Clarke draws the bag open and peeks inside. Zucchinis, she thinks, or cucumbers, she can never remember the difference. A few tomatoes, slightly soft and jostled, but glowing warmly under her lamplighter, and broccoli florets. She smiles despite herself, then looks up at Bellamy. 

"Is this the only reason you're here?" she asks, carefully neutral. 

"No," he says, so Clarke reaches up and starts unbuckling the weapons belt slung over his shoulder. When it falls to the table with a heavy slam, the sound seems to wake him up. His hands fly up and begin to help her, unwinding the warm scarf around his neck, unbuttoning his overcoat. Clarke slips her hands underneath his shirt and he hisses at the chill of her skin, moving backwards even as she chases his warmth. 

Their hurry fades once they're in bed underneath the blankets. Bellamy strokes her hair, twirling blonde curls around his finger and examining them closely with an unreadable expression. Clarke watches the flickering lamplight turn the edge of his face into something haunted and ever-shifting and thinks how lovely it would be to see him like this every night. To see the stories he tells her made real in flesh and bone and wood; the cabin where he keeps his books and nails her drawings to the wall, the workshop they built for Raven, Monty's greenhouse, the sound of laughter and song late into the night -

She'd ruin it somehow. Her touch ruins everything. 

"What do you need?" Bellamy asks her in a low, rough voice. He lets her hair drop and rests his hand above her collarbone, where its weight feels heavy and comforting. His fingertips graze the edge of her neck. He brings his palm up to cup her face and brushes the mole above her lip with his thumb. Clarke closes her eyes.

"This, please," she whispers. 

Bellamy is silent for a moment, and then he shifts his weight and strokes her head until they both fall asleep. 

Clarke wakes, what feels like minutes later, to the sound of distant singing. The lamplight has burned itself out and the ceiling of her little shop is shadowed and foreign. Still nighttime. Bellamy's body is gone from his half of the bed, and when she stretches her hand out to touch the empty space with dismay, the bed is cold. 

She slips out of bed and grabs a hooded cloak and the dagger she left on the table. The singing grows stronger as she approaches her front door, as does the smell of blood and rot. _You don't have to open the door_, she tells herself, knowing she is going to open it. _You can go back to bed and put your hands over your ears and scream until you drown it out_. But it is like a scab she doesn't know how to stop picking at. It bleeds and it bleeds and she keeps hoping eventually it will count as repentance. Bellamy says it has been three years but nights like these it doesn't feel like a single week has passed.

She opens the door and steps into a dining room full of bodies. The night is cloudless and sparkling, the moon nearly full in the sky, and there is plenty of light with which to see the Mountain Men slumped over in their seats, their Sunday best stained with blood and pus from radiation sores. The food is rotting on the table as Clarke watches, every plate piled with mold and jewels, and she can't help but remember how very sweet that chocolate cake tasted at first. 

Clarke walks down the aisle between the two long tables, crying quietly to herself as the corpses' jaws open and creak all around her, singing tuneless melodies even as the flies buzz over their skin and refuse to land. 

"Bellamy?" Clarke asks, half-afraid that calling his name will bring him here to this horror, half-afraid it won't. He doesn't appear, and she tells herself it's a good thing. He doesn't have to see this. No one else should bear it. She forces herself to keep walking.

Halfway down the tables the grotesque faces begin to resemble the people she's met in Polis. Customers whose tattoos are now bleeding ink, the ambassadors she watches from a distance, her neighbour with the chickens, the woman from the market who gives her a discount because Clarke reminds her of her daughter -

Worse still are when the faces she remembers from the Ark appear. The first girl she kissed. Then, the delinquents. At the head of the table, surrounded by the bodies of their friends, there is a boy wearing a pair of goggles. Clarke makes an involuntary cry and lurches towards him. Just as her hands come into reach, he raises his head.

A hand clamps down on Clarke's mouth as she begins to scream. Her limbs are suddenly heavy and trapped, but she still thrashes against the bonds holding her down as a voice in her ear whispers _shhh_ over and over. 

She realizes she's back in her bed, and her arms and legs are trapped by nothing more than the blankets. Bellamy's eyes are dark and angry as he watches her face by the hearthfire's faint glow. The hand over her mouth is his.

Clarke stops screaming but even as she tries to calm herself, her ribcage shakes with tiny, choked whimpers. 

"It was a nightmare," Bellamy promises, his eyes darting between hers. Even through the fear that closes her throat and makes her hands claw at his back, Clarke wants to reassure him too, wants to smooth out the deep frown in his forehead. "You're safe," he says, "It was a nightmare. I'm here, you're safe."

Clarke still can't slow her racing heart or hold back her sobs, but Bellamy tentatively eases his hand off her mouth, and when she doesn't start screaming again, bends his head down to kiss her cheek. 

"You're safe," he says again, and it doesn't matter to her that it's repetitive. She could listen to him making that promise for the rest of her life. Might even believe it, eventually. She curls eagerly against him as he lays back down next to her and pulls her close, rubbing soothing circles into her back as slowly, slowly, her hitching breaths begin to even out. Clarke feels at once exhausted and wide-awake, helpless to do anything but press her face into his chest and squeeze her eyes like it'll stop her from seeing the tables ladden with rotting food. 

"You didn't leave?" Clarke asks, just to make sure. 

"No," he says. "I'm here."

They're still and quiet long enough that Clarke thinks he might have fallen asleep, when he takes a deep breath.

"I have them too," he says, and his voice is distant. Almost clinical. "In most of mine, I'm in the decontamination chamber under the mountain, and a bunch of faceless hazmat suits are hosing me down, and I have to watch them drill into you at the same time."

"I'm sorry," Clarke whispers.

"They're gone, Clarke," he whispers back, stroking her shoulder with his thumb. "They're gone and they can't hurt us anymore."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she says.

He pulls away to look at her. 

"I don't understand."

_I don't deserve to be safe is what she thinks_. 

“Nevermind,” is what she says aloud, and the tears she thought were done return with a vengeance. The wave of old grief crashes over her and carries her away in its wake.

“Clarke - “

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s _clearly_ not nothing.”

“What would have happened, if I came in and got that drink?” Clarke interrupts, before he can press further. Bellamy drums his fingers against her arm as he thinks. 

“We would have gotten something strong, and climbed to the top of the station, and watched the sunset."

"Sounds romantic," Clarke quips. She hears Bellamy's huff of laughter. He doesn't disagree.

"The first night, no one wanted to sleep alone or inside. There was a big pile of delinquents sitting in the grass. It got darker and darker and Kane sent guards to tell us where we could bunk down… and no one got up. We fell asleep like that. You would have been next to me.”

Clarke’s heart aches. Her hand twitches against the blankets and she notes with some surprise that the yearning is nearly physical. It feels almost like she could reach into her chest and pull it out. The point is that it’s not real. Just a story that Bellamy is telling to comfort her, maybe one he has told himself before. But it feels like it could be real. Like she just missed it with outstretched fingertips.

“And after?” Clarke prompts, hardly daring to breathe. Bellamy’s breaths are deep and slow, but he isn’t asleep just yet. 

“You would have come east with us,” he says, so certain of it she has to bite her lip to keep from sobbing aloud. He thinks for a while. “Our cabin would be the same. I think… I think everyone’s left space for you in our life.”

It sounds beautiful.

Clarke picks up his hand and presses a kiss to the center of his palm, in thanks.

Bellamy's delegation leaves Polis the next morning. The outpost village is small, and far enough into the outskirts of other clan territory that their disputes tend to be minor. Clarke thinks that maybe the ocean has something to do with it. She only knows it from the stories of her friends but she thinks it must be humbling to find yourself in front of such vastness, and when you are humble you tend to be a little less likely to stick a sword into your neighbour just for a few extra acres of good hunting land. Or so she thinks. Her position in the shadows in Polis makes everything else feel far away. Like she's observing a chessboard like she and Wells used to pour over, trying to predict the next moves of a board with thirteen edges and an ever-changing grid.

Bellamy lingers at her door that morning. 

"You can always come home with me," he says.

"I know," Clarke answers, though this is not quite true. If she knew it as well as she tells him she does, she wouldn't feel reassured every single time he reminds her. She doesn't intend to go back, but she craves the invitation all the same, treasuring each as a promise at least one person on this Earth doesn't think she's a monster, and hoarding the guilt-ridden happiness it brings her in case Bellamy's patience runs out one day.

It won't. But she still fears it.

She kisses him goodbye and closes the door on his retreating back. Spring takes a long time to come.

It's not always just Bellamy who comes to her shop. In early summer, as the trees are just starting to split apart with tiny green buds and the runoff from melting ice floods every river radiating from the mountain, he brings Raven. 

It's been a full three years since Clarke has seen her in person. Though they've talked on Clarke's secret radio since, their conversations tend to be filled with painful silences broken only by the relief of changing the subject to something they know how to fix. Clarke keeps talking because she is sure there is something good buried underneath the pain, because watching Raven take her first steps on Earth, arms outstretched, temple bleeding, is one of her happiest memories, and Raven keeps talking for whatever complicated reasoning her beautiful brain chained together, and none of it prepares Clarke for the shock of seeing her on her doorstep. 

"Is this all right?" Raven asks, lingering outside even as Bellamy walks right in. 

"Yes, of course," Clarke says, her hands awkwardly fluttering at her sides as she wavers between stepping forward and hugging Raven or not. Raven steps in, her sharp eyes roving over every inch of Clarke's home. At last she takes a seat near the worktable, and the moment is lost. Clarke examines her as closely as Raven examines their surroundings. She wears her hair down now, hanging over one shoulder, and it's wavier than Clarke thought it would be. Her bone structure, already sharp in her youth, has only grown more mature. Clarke wonders how the years show on her, and absently touches her frayed red hair. Bellamy lurks protectively in the corner as though they need to be supervised. He doesn't come closer to kiss Clarke hello, and she wonders if the delinquents know about them. They must know he sleeps at her place instead of with the delegation whenever they come to meet with the other ambassadors, but then, sharing a bed has different connotations down here than it did on the Ark. Here, cold winters and limited shelter drive people together. It occurs to Clarke for a split second to worry if he is ashamed, but then she remembers his insistence that his cabin is built for two.

"I've heard you do pretty good tattoos now," Raven says, breaking her thoughts away. 

"I've had a few happy customers," Clarke answers. She considers for a beat, then adds: "No one's stabbed me over a bad job yet."

The rush of warmth she feels when Raven barks out laughter makes her duck her head and take deep breaths. She's been wearing the mask of an unremarkable tattoo artist for so long that it scares her, how quickly she yearns to be herself with someone who once knew her. 

"Well, you're probably the only tattoo artist on the planet who knows the way Earth used to look from the Ark, so, it's gonna be you," Raven says. Clarke, intrigued, gets out her sketchbook and starts putting Raven's words on paper. Bellamy helps himself to the compartment under her loose floorboard and and lays back on the bed to read her latest reports. Clarke only disturbs him to steal a pillow to prop Raven's leg up, and then the hours slip away as she bends over Raven's thigh, tattooing the gentle curve of the planet with shimmering stars above it and a wave of tiny pinpricks to form the aurora borealis. It's not a bird's eye view. Clarke's not sure what to call it. It looks like a dream. Like soaring towards the horizon with your belly barely skimming the outer edges of the atmosphere.

"Thank you for giving me back the sky," Raven says, trying to poke at her reddened skin. Clarke bats her curious hands away and dabs faint traces of blood away. It's good, clean work. She'll heal quickly, if she doesn't stick her fingers in it.

"Take good care of it," Clarke says softly. "I... I hope the past few years have been good to you."

"Better than the first one on Earth was," Raven says dryly. Then she reaches out and lays her hand on Clarke's arm. Fuck, how long has it been since a friend touched her? "It's been good. But there's still a few pieces missing."

"What's wrong?" 

Raven huffs like Clarke has just said something that is not just wrong, but embarrassingly so. She glances towards the bed. Clarke follows her gaze and sees that at some point during the tattooing process, Bellamy fell asleep. His face is open and relaxed, her notes still resting on his chest as if he only meant to rest his eyes for a minute. 

"He loves you," Raven whispers. Clarke swallows hard. 

"I love him too," she admits, and even now, years later, part of her wants to run away, hide, squeeze herself into the secret place under the floorboards.

"Then come home with us," Raven says.

"I'm useful here."

There is some kind of safety in lurking in Polis as she does, observing the puppets dancing in and out of Lexa's court without pulling the strings herself.

"And I know the appeal of feeling useful more than most people," Raven bites back. "But that's not enough to live on."

"I still see them in my dreams," Clarke hisses. "I don't get to move on when I killed so many people."

"I killed about as many in the ring of fire," Raven says bluntly. The flicker in her eyes is the only hint of emotion she lets Clarke see. The rest of her is as remorseless as the edge of a knife. "Do you think I should be unhappy?"

"That's different," Clarke says. "They were warriors, they knew going into battle - "

"The Mountain Men weren't innocents," Raven counters, knowing where Clarke is going. "Every one of them probably had a higher body count than the warriors who attacked us."

"Raven - " Clarke buries her face in her hands and holds back a sob.

"That's enough," Bellamy says. She hears the bed creak as he sits up, hears his footsteps cross the floor. His hand comes to squeeze her shoulder.

"No, it's not - " Raven argues 

"She's right," Clarke mumbles around her fingers. She takes a shaky breath and lowers her hands, wiping her tears away on her knees. "I don't blame any of you for the things you did. Not either of you, not Monty. I just can't forgive myself."

"I don't think you ever do," Bellamy says, easing into the seat next to her without ever taking his eyes off Clarke's face. "I haven't. I think you just tell yourself it was the best thing you could have done at that point in time, and you keep going."

"It would be easier if I knew we were the good guys."

"Clarke, if I ever think you're the bad guy, trust me, I'll let you know all about it," Raven says dryly.

"Thanks," Clarke says, wiping tears away. 

"Will you come home?" Raven asks.

"Not yet," Clarke says, and she hears Bellamy's sharp inhale. "But soon."

It's the first time she hasn't said no.

At the end of summer, as the heat hangs like a suffocating blanket over Polis and crickets sing every night in the rubble still scattered throughout the city, Harper and Monty come.

When Clarke sees them her first thought is that they must be drunk. Their faces are red and flushed and split in half by wide, matching smiles, the brightest ones Clarke has seen in her life. Harper let's go of Monty's hand just long enough to throw her arms around Clarke's neck like they've only been parted for a few weeks and not years, and Monty tries to stammer out a coherent greeting three times before bending over in giggles.

"What's going on?" Clarke asks. Their happiness is as contagious as it is utterly bewildering, and she smiles back involuntarily. Looking directly into the face of either of them would be like the first sight of the sun after a lifetime spent underground. Together they are nearly blinding. 

"We're getting married," Monty blurts out, at the same time that Harper says: "We're married!"

They look at each other and start laughing again. 

"Bellamy married us," Harper explains. "But we came to make it official with you too!"

"Oh my god," Clarke murmurs. "Um - _how?_"

"Betrothal tattoos," Monty insists, and Clarke smacks her forehead.

"Right, yes," she says with a laugh. "I do those. Oh, I'm so happy for you. When did you...?"

She gets the full story as she works. Monty and Harper splay their hands out on her worktable, ring fingers on display, and Clarke carefully gives them both matching blank bands at the base of the ring finger. When she's finished with Monty's and Harper is vigorously shaking her hand and wincing, Clarke sits back and thinks there should be more ceremony to it. 

"We should have a toast," she declares, and she gathers up her meagre collection of money and they go to the market to buy alcohol and something to eat. Monty and Harper walk half a step slower than the rest of the crowd in the marketplace, oogling the roughshod kiosks and the fluttering flags strung from streetlight to streetlight. Clarke buys two pastries for them to split and Harper wipes custard off her nose with her thumb. Monty picks up a painted egg to examine it and immediately gets yelled at in a flood of Trigedasleng that comes too fast even for Clarke to translate. They run back to her shop laughing, stomachs in stitches, and -

At the end of the night, Monty turns to her and asks, "Are you coming home with us?"

Clarke's heart is so full she feels like it's going to climb up her throat and make a speech. 

"Soon," she promises. The next time Bellamy visits for a meeting, she'll pack her things. 

She never gets the chance. 

The leaves on the trees have just started to turn red and gold when Lexa comes to Clarke's door. 

She is halfway through tattooing a customer, and the door is wide open to let the light and the air in. By the time Lexa's shadow darkens the doorstep, it is far too late for Clarke to run or hide or pretend she is anyone else. They make eye contact for a long, tense moment, Clarke's hand frozen above her customer's skin. 

Then:

"Leave us," Lexa commands, and the customer immediately slides off Clarke's worktable and gingerly slips his shirt on over the half-finished tattoo. Tiny beads of blood dot the material as he walks out. No hesitation. A loyalist, then. Their numbers have fluctuated over the years with Lexa's popularity. 

Clarke sets her hands in her lap, underneath the table, and wishes she had something stronger than a needle in her reach. 

"How did you find out?" Clarke asks. There is no point in pretending she is anyone else. The red hair is not enough to hide her from someone who already knows her face, only to divert the attention of those who had only heard stories of her golden head. 

"I've known you were here the whole time," Lexa says softly, clasping her hands in front of her. She is in full regalia today, the red cape hanging from one shoulder. Only the warpaint is missing. "You're not the only spy in my city, Clarke."

"I'm supposed to believe you left me alone out of the goodness of your heart?" Clarke asks bitterly.

"I couldn't publicly favour the Sky People without risking the wrath of the other twelve clans," Lexa replies. "The insights you passed onto your ambassadors... it was a way to make amends for the Mountain."

"Nothing will ever be enough for that," Clarke says, and finally, Lexa flinches. 

"You haven't asked me why I'm here today," she says. 

"Why?" 

"Delphikru plans to annex the outpost," Lexa says, and Clarke feels the news like a physical blow. Her stomach rolls with shock and dread. She's been saying for months that Delphi's rising ambitions are a threat, but she never imagined such a bold move with so little warning.

"When?" she gasps out, already stumbling to her feet. The radio under the floorboards - but no, there's no delegation either from the outpost or from Arkadia due to come in, and there will be no one within range to piggyback a message. She grabs the nearest sack and starts throwing provisions and clothing in. 

"Tomorrow," Lexa says. "There is a horse waiting for you at the gates. The stable hand will give it to you if you say my name."

Because there is no point in keeping secrets now, she lifts up the loose floorboard and stuffs her illicit notes and radio into the remainder of the sack. 

"I don't understand..." Clarke says, stopping in front of Lexa. _Why you let me stay. Why you are helping me now._ Lexa's gaze flickers to her mouth. 

"You do," she says evenly, just a shade chilly. She wavers. "In another life..."

"Yes," Clarke concedes. "But not this one."

Part of her stills thinks it might be a trick until she finds the horse, waiting at the gates as Lexa said it would be. Three years - nearly four now - on the ground have done little to dull the wonder of horses. Clarke brushes her hand over its flank, murmurs a prayer for their safe journey, and climbs into the saddle. 

All she has to track her way is a rough map and stories. The outpost village is south of Floukru territory. A difficult ride to make in just over a day, and the horse needs frequent breaks to walk and drink and eat. Clarke speaks to the radio just to keep herself sane as the horse takes its sweet time munching on the green shoots along the stream they're following, even though she's still too far to be heard. They ride through the night, too, and it's miserable. It rains, and Clarke ran off without her cloak. Red-stained water streams down her face and neck, tickling its way under her collar and drenching her skin. By the time dawn finally breaks and the clouds finish pouring, her hair is plastered to the sides of her head, and golden again. 

She crests a hill just as the sun does the same on the opposite horizon, and for a moment the light is blinding. Then, on the sloping hills below her, she sees the terraces of crops Monty's told her about, the silver-blue gleam of solar panels mounted on the roof of each cabin nestled in between the trees. The ocean is a dark gray smear beyond the village. 

_Home_, Clarke thinks. And she urges her horse forward.

**Author's Note:**

> rip to that one guy who comes back to Clarke's studio the next day to get his tattoo finished and finds out his friendly neighbourhood tattoo artist was Wanheda all along.
> 
> Absolutely no effort was put into the accuracy of geography, Grounder clan distribution, travel times, or the hand-wavy politics.
> 
> Thank you for reading! This fic ends here, but if you like its vibe, I'm writing a much longer au of this where Clarke _does_ go inside with Bellamy after Mount Weather, and is part of the delinquent exodus to a new village on the coast. If you're curious about that you can check out my 'sara's writing upd8s' tag on [tumblr ](https://kindclaws.tumblr.com/tagged/sara's+writing+upd8s). It's the "not-season-5-au."
> 
> Thank you to [bellarke bingo ](https://bellarkebingo.tumblr.com/) for the inspiration and the challenge! You can check out my bingo card [here](https://kindclaws.tumblr.com/post/188376752385/blue-fic-coming-tomorrow-green-fic-coming).


End file.
